


Raindrops

by Evergreene



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, d'Artagnan's in a cage again, minor violence and mature themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:50:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6705136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evergreene/pseuds/Evergreene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos and d'Artagnan both struggle when they are captured for a fighting ring. For what use has anyone for a blind Musketeer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *creeps into the Archive and posts this chapter before running away* This story is finished already, I promise! No giant gaps whilst I try to get my brain in gear to finish it like some other fics I might possibly still be writing. I was going to wait to post this one actually, but then I saw a pic from the new season that made me think I should get it up now. As always, thoughts and feelings are always adored and I hope you enjoy.

Blinking back the raindrops, Porthos shoulders his cloak closer about him and listens to the rattle of the wagon as it carries them through the night. Beside him, d’Artagnan is no more than a miserable huddle of limbs, head down, shoulders hunched and his hands chained tight to the wooden railings, just like Porthos’ own. He has not said a word in hours.

Now though, the wagon is slowing, the lights of a farmhouse are visible through the trees, and he’s thinking he needs d’Artagnan talking, to help him figure a way out of this. So, leaning over, he nudges d’Artagnan’s shoulder with his own, feeling the sodden leather of his pauldron catch roughly on the threadbare fabric of d’Artagnan’s shirt.

‘Hey. You with me?’

There is no answer and Porthos frowns, then edges forward to make out what he can of his friend’s face beneath the grime and shadow of a hard week’s growth. ‘Hey,’ he tries again, rattling his chains so they clank against each other, but it serves only to draw the attention of one of their captors, who rides up beside the wagon and aims a kick at its wooden boards, sending his mount careening sideways until he yanks it back on course with a fierce oath and the snap of his whip.

D’Artagnan starts at the noise but the man pays him little attention, just raises his lantern so the dim light seeps over the open wagon bed - matted straw, filth and all. ‘Keep it down!’ he bellows, the persistent rain slicking down his dark cloak and plastering his pale hair to his head. ‘Or is it another lesson you’re wanting?’

Wincing against the brightness, Porthos raises his arm as much as he can against the chains to protect his eyes from the sudden flare. Next to him, d’Artagnan stays motionless but his shoulders are stiff and Porthos knows he is listening. ‘No need,’ he forces himself to say. ‘We’re good.’

The man sneers, his sharp features caught in a flash of lightning that illuminates the scattered trees and the rough trail running through them. ‘Glad to hear it. God knows your friend’s useless enough without me doing any more damage!’

He drops back into the darkness again, his laughter feral, and Porthos feels a bank of rage, already at a simmer, curl deep and dark inside of him. But he forces it down and he turns his attention instead towards d’Artagnan, who has finally stirred, the pale cloth bound tight about his eyes standing out stark and frayed against his bedraggled hair.

With a glance at their guards, Porthos edges closer until their shoulders bump, though he is careful to keep his voice low. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ he mutters. ‘We’ll fix your eyes up, good as new. Aramis-’

‘Aramis is dead.’ D’Artagnan’s voice is low and bitter and Porthos’ heart sinks at the sound even as he shakes his head, determined not to give up hope.

‘We don’t know that. Him and Athos, they could have got away. We didn’t see what happened to them-’

D’Artagnan scoffs. ‘I didn’t see anything, remember?’

Porthos does. He remembers the howl of pain that had slit open the night, of being dragged from his bedroll by rough hands to find Athos and Aramis gone and d’Artagnan folded in on himself next to their scattered campfire, clawing wretchedly at his eyes while glowing coals burnt like stars on the black earth about him. The sharp-faced man had loomed out of the dark, his men gathered close, and he had kicked out at d’Artagnan, sending him rolling over onto his back as he lowered a thick, burning branch right over d’Artagnan’s convulsing throat.

‘Your friend shouldn’t have slept so close to your little campfire,’ he had said, and at his feet d’Artagnan had stilled, his entire body going taut and desperate as he sensed the fire he could not see.

That had been it. They had been forced to their feet, shoved into the wagon like the cattle Porthos often saw being moved through the streets of Paris, and the days had dissolved into a blur of hunger and thirst and having d’Artagnan try vainly to burrow into his side as the pain of his eyes grew beyond what he could bear.

The wagon jerks as it hits a tree root and Porthos is jolted back to the present, to the misting rain and splashing wheels and the flicker of ghostly lights through the trees. D’Artagnan is still speaking, and Porthos is glad of it, at least until he hears his words.

‘He’s right,’ he is saying bitterly. ‘They should have killed me where I lay.’ His shoulders sag and when he speaks next, his voice cracks, helpless. ‘What use am I to anyone like this?’

Before Porthos can respond, there’s a bellow from the side of the cart and d’Artagnan subsides, sinking back into his misery and leaving Porthos to his own thoughts, of Athos and Aramis and most of all about d’Artagnan. For though he would not admit it, least of all to himself, there’s a pit inside him that hollows as he thinks of whatever is to come.

For what use has anyone for a blind Musketeer?

* * *

They soon find out.

The wagon slows before a farmhouse, its windows lit warm against the lashing rain that continues to soak the earth. It forms shining puddles that reflect back the blackness of the night and Porthos watches the raindrops within them, an endless entertainment after too many days on the road, before realising that the wagon has drawn to a halt and there are men climbing into it with them.

He nudges d’Artagnan, warning him, then the men are upon them, unfastening their chains, roping their hands behind their backs and dragging them out and to the ground, where mud sucks squelching at their boots. After a muttered conversation between their captors, they are forced to start walking, and it becomes clear at once that d’Artagnan, pushed along in front of him, is having the worst of it. Unused to the darkness that is now his world, he is slow, awkward, with every step – his usual litheness gone along with his sight - and it is painful to watch him stumble forwards over the furrowed field, harried by the shouts and shoves of a half-dozen men.

It is not long before a rough blow to the shoulders sends d’Artagnan stumbling to his knees and Porthos is forced to watch as he kneels there in the mud and darkness, his shoulders heaving with unsteady breaths and his hair clinging wetly to his bowed head. Yet he makes no move to get up and it is that which sends Porthos barrelling forwards, for one of the truths he knows right deep down to his gut is that d’Artagnan is no quitter, never has been since he first stormed into the garrison, and if he’s not fighting to get up then it means that he needs help. And Porthos is going to give it to him, ropes about his wrists or no.

Elbowing away the hands that try to pull him back, he charges forward through the mud and drops to his knees next to d’Artagnan, shadowing him with the larger bulk of his own body.

‘Come on,’ he mutters, making sure his words are for d’Artagnan and d’Artagnan alone. ‘No use us staying here. Better get inside.’

It takes a moment, but d’Artagnan’s head drops in a nod and he allows Porthos to help him up with a shoulder under his arm until he’s on his feet again. Hands reach in at once and try to pull them apart, but Porthos is having none of it and stays rock-solid at d’Artagnan’s side, guiding him along until they reach an ancient barn set on the far side of the field they had crossed.

The sagging roof and sunken stone walls look ready to fall at the next howl of wind, but Porthos spares the building little more than a cursory glance, all his attention on d’Artagnan as they are jerked to a halt and the double-height doors before them are heaved open. They are pushed inside and a familiar smell at once swamps the air, of faded dust and mildewed straw and the lingering smell of animals long-vanished.

Beside him, d’Artagnan stiffens and Porthos sees his head come up, his nostrils flaring beneath the blindfold.

‘We’re on a farm?’ he says, his voice hoarse with disuse, but there is no time to answer, for they are hustled forwards as the wooden doors are slammed shut, before being forced along to where a make-shift ring is staked out by wooden pegs and rope. It is rough and ready but its purpose is clear enough, especially with the straw-hewn floor being tramped down all around it as though by the boots of many men. The derelict wagon stationed alongside it just gives another clue.

‘Do I need to tell you why you’re here?’

Porthos squares his shoulders, straightening up to his full height as Sharp-face appears out of the shadows, a couple of his men taking up positions at their backs and the others coming round to encircle them, two of them bearing burning lanterns that throw a scattered, swaying light over the entire scene, the storm outside now dimmed to an ominous rumble.

He takes his time answering. ‘If I didn’t know it was illegal,’ he says finally, ‘I’d say this was a fighting ring.’

Sharp-face nods, bringing up a finger to touch the side of his pointed nose. ‘I see we have a smart one, men.’ Laughter ripples around the circle as he steps forwards, one hand now playing with the sturdy hilt of his belt-knife. ‘You know, a couple of my men saw you fighting in a tavern back in Paris. A wager, I think was the reason - all in good fun, of course.’

Porthos doesn’t let his surprise show on his face, hopes d’Artagnan is doing the same where he is stood next to him, their shoulders just touching. ‘That so?’

‘From what they told me, you took down two men like it was nothing – quick, like that.’ He snaps his fingers, the sound echoing through the vast barn and causing d’Artagnan to flinch, caught off guard by the noise.

Sharp-face flicks him a glance, his mouth curving up, and continues. ‘So when my men told me that, I went and I watched you for myself. And when I did, I saw your young friend here cheering you on. Had a drink with you after, played a game of cards – though I’ll tell you, I think you had a couple of tricks up your sleeve.’ He pauses, allows another chuckle to pass around his men, and when he speaks again, his voice is gone sharper, harder and Porthos knows he has gotten to the point. ‘You know, a fighter as good as you are can make a man rich.’

Porthos takes this in, then lets all the bluster that had served him so well growing up on the streets of Paris come to the fore as he leans forward and lifts his chin up. ‘You think I’m gonna fight for you?’ 

Sharp-face smirks, and next to Porthos d’Artagnan is shoved abruptly to his knees, his legs kicked out by the guard lurking close behind his back. He grunts in pain as his shins hit the ground and Porthos bellows a protest, but it is no use, there are hands closing about his shoulders and the man standing behind d’Artagnan is pulling out his own knife as Sharp-face holds up a hand, stilling the scene.

‘No,’ he says, and it takes Porthos, breathing hard, a moment to register the weapon as it comes to rest softly against d’Artagnan’s neck, the thin blade gleaming in the lantern-light. ‘No, I think you’re going to fight for _him_.’

And Porthos realises what use they have found for a blind Musketeer.


	2. Chapter 2

It is a full week before he is called to fight in the ring and Porthos uses the time well, finding out what he can about their surrounds. There’s another barn close by the first, a boarded passageway in-between them, and within are a dozen cells, separated by iron bars set floor to ceiling and with a narrow corridor that runs through the middle. The few solitary lanterns suspended from nails hammered into the stone walls give a sense of everlasting twilight even when the sun is blazing outside, but it is easy enough to make out the shadowy figures of other men lurking in the dimness the first time he and d’Artagnan are led inside and forced into a cell. He makes the count at sixteen - fighters all of them by the look of their scars - and over the next couple of days he discovers that most are willing participants in Sharp-face’s set up, with only two having been brought in like himself as a way of introducing new interest for the crowds who come to watch.

It is to those two that he turns the first time he is summoned to fight.

‘Watch him for me,’ he says, with a look to where d’Artagnan is sat with his back pressed close against the stones that form the outer wall of their shared cell, silent but with his whole body thrumming with a tension that is all too obvious to anyone watching.

The men exchange a look, clearly wary of Sharp-face’s lackeys, waiting to escort him to the ring.

‘What’ll you give us?’

‘Food.’ He knows he can go without it, has done it before, and it is something that is scarce enough here to buy somebody’s loyalty, at least for a while. He glances at the gates of the cells that run along the corridor, always left open except for at night when one of Sharp-face’s men comes round to lock them all in until the sun next rises. ‘You can have my rations.’

The men nod and so does he, knowing he has done what he can. He gives one last glance towards d’Artagnan, then strides down the narrow passageway to where the ring is waiting, where he can already hear the voice of a raucous crowd amassed from all over the nearby countryside.

His first opponent is a fighter-born, but then again so is he, and he’s able to duck most of the blows and dole out his own until the man lies groaning at his feet. His blood surging high against the roar of the crowd, he shakes off the grip of his guards and returns to the relative stillness of where d’Artagnan is waiting in their cell, twisting the trailing threads of his shirt-sleeve tight about his wrist and completely unaware of the two men standing watch in the corridor.

With a nod to them both, he enters, taking care to rattle the iron bars with a shoulder as he ducks inside. At once d’Artagnan stiffens, his head twitching as he tries to map out the sounds around him, but Porthos has learnt to expect this, so he says nothing about it as he settles into a crouch on the dirt floor in front of d’Artagnan and waits for him to speak.

‘Porthos?’

‘None other.’

D’Artagnan turns his head towards him, his direction off by several inches. ‘You won then?’

‘’Course I won. Wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t, would I?’

D’Artagnan’s voice is flat, angry, when he answers. ‘You shouldn’t be here at all.’

Porthos shakes his head, not able to break himself of the habit even though he knows d’Artagnan cannot see him. ‘This sounds familiar,’ he says. They’ve had this conversation every night since they arrived.

D’Artagnan slams his fist into the dirt of the cell floor. ‘You could be killed in there,’ he hisses.

‘You’re not careful, I’ll start thinking you don’t reckon much of my fighting skills.’ He’s careful to keep his voice light. ‘I’m not leaving you behind. Now let’s have a look at you.’

D’Artagnan’s mouth goes tight but he doesn’t protest as Porthos reaches up to unwind the bandage about his head. The skin beneath is sore and tender, flecked with red and mottled with swollen blisters that are angry to the touch, and Porthos winces at he takes them in, wishing abruptly that Aramis was there instead of him. But then he‘s forced to grab for d’Artagnan’s arm, stopping him from reaching up to rub at his closed eyes.

‘Hold off it,’ he says. ‘Thought we agreed you wouldn’t touch.’ He pauses a moment, then asks the question he’s asked everyday they since they were captured.

‘Anything?’

D’Artagnan shakes his head, silent as death, and Porthos winds the bandage back up, making sure to cover all of the inflamed flesh.

‘Give it time,’ he says. ‘It’ll heal.’

He knows d’Artagnan does not believe him but doesn’t press it as he claps a hand to d’Artagnan’s shoulder before rising to his feet and heading for the metal water bucket hanging halfway up the bars on the other side of the cell. Bending over it, he splashes some water onto his face, then runs a bruised finger over the sluggishly bleeding cut on his brow and then along his swollen jaw, silently glad that d’Artagnan can’t see him do it.

* * *

The days dissolve into weeks that drag along, fraught with a tension that rattles into fear each time he is forced to leave d’Artagnan alone to fight against a stream of opponents who get steadily better, their shadowed eyes and cunning blows revealing them as the trained fighters they are.

The two men who had stood guard that first time don’t last long as allies, going coward after some of the other men turn on them to get at the rations that Porthos had traded. At first, Porthos wants to be angry, but he makes himself let it go, unable to blame them for looking out for their own even as his guts twist with the thought of what he might find every time he returns after a bout in the ring. For the most part, d’Artagnan does a decent job of hiding the bruises, but it is harder for him to cover up the missing rations that are nowadays gone more often than not. So far, it’s stopped there, and for that he is grateful, but Porthos knows it is only a matter of time until things take a turn, whether that’s towards d’Artagnan being used as leverage in the ring or to something more ominous.

He knows d’Artagnan is too smart not to have been thinking it for himself, but d’Artagnan’s saying nothing, not even after the first time that Porthos returns to find him with a ring of bruises about his throat that look far too much like fingerprints. After the second time that happens, Porthos makes a decision that he's not sure is wrong or right, but either way those marks are what makes him able to sling out his foot the next time d’Artagnan edges his way across the cell on his way to the water bucket.

D’Artagnan’s legs go out from under him and his head thumps against the ground, but Porthos does not give him the chance to recover before he is on him, knee pressed into the low of his back and his fist wrapped tight in the straggling hair. _One, two, three_ , he counts silently and then he is off, rolling away and tapping d’Artagnan twice on the shoulder same as they do when sparring back at the garrison and one of them calls it quits for the day.

This time it is different.

D’Artagnan is slow to move, pushing himself up and back until he is pressed against the stone wall of the cell, as far away from Porthos as he can get.

‘Why?’ he says finally, and there’s a hitch to his breath.

Porthos hates the betrayal that lines the word but forces himself to ignore it. ‘Because you’re damn lucky that was me and not someone else. Why aren’t you standing up for yourself when they go for you?’

‘I can’t see!’ d’Artagnan hisses, his pale cheeks flushing with colour, from embarrassment or anger, Porthos does not know. ‘How am I meant to fight?’

‘Use your instincts! Your ears, your gut! It’ll be damn hard, but it’s a damn sight better than wasting your life away or letting someone else take it!’

‘What’s the use? Even if we get out of here, my life is over anyway.’

Porthos stills. ‘That so?’ he says finally. ‘You think we can’t find work for you at the garrison? That your girl Constance won’t want you back?’

Bitterness twists at d’Artagnan’s mouth. ‘She deserves a better life than I can give her now.’

Porthos looks at him, takes in the greying bandage over his friend’s eyes, the mouth turned down, the lean muscle that is starting to turn skinny. ‘See,’ he says, ‘I’m not convinced Contance’ll think of it that way. Truth is, I think she’ll belt you worse than she ever has Aramis for having the goddamn balls to think it’s you who can make that kind of decision for her.’

There is silence in the cell, then d’Artagnan’s lips curl upwards, the quirk slight, but there. ‘She would, wouldn’t she?’

Porthos nods. ‘That’s right. So I’m thinking we’d better get you fighting-fit again, so you can defend yourself when she comes after you.’ He lets something else, something firmer, something determined, creep into his voice. ‘’Course, you’ll be able to see by then but still, Constance has got a mean swing. Comes from having all those brothers of hers, I reckon. Better to keep your strength up while we can.’

‘They might not get better.’

‘’Course they will-’

‘ _Porthos_.’

D’Artagnan’s voice is quiet, desperate, but Porthos can still hear it, the fear, the grief that d’Artagnan has been holding back, his need for someone else to admit that things might not be alright even if it’s what they want, even if it’s what Porthos himself needs to keep himself going in this hell they’ve found themselves in. 

So he closes his eyes, leans his head back against the bars on his side of the cell and he answers with the truth. ‘Maybe not.’ He shifts his jaw, swallows the thickness coming up in his throat. ‘But I’m not going to let that stop you from you living your life, you got that? I’m with you to the end.’

He opens his eyes in time to see d’Artagnan nod - barely, but there.

‘All right then. At night, we train.’

* * *

 

The next day, Sharp-face comes to their cell and orders him to lose the fight planned for the evening. A bet has been made, one of the largest sums to have changed hands since the fighting ring started, and Sharp-faces’s eyes are greedy as he makes his demand.

When darkness falls, Porthos walks into the ring to the biggest crowd he has seen yet. He glances at Sharp-face as he enters, finding him standing in his usual place, stationed on top of the rusting wagon that is drawn up on one side of the ring, the bed of it high enough to serve as a stage. Sharp-face’s narrow face is alight, with confidence and greed and the knowledge he is about to be rich, and Porthos cannot help but compare it to d’Artagnan’s, always white and drawn these days, but which had held a hint of his old stubbornness for the first time in weeks as he’d wished Porthos luck when he’d left him behind in that cell.

The bank of rage that had been lingering in his gut ever since they were first captured comes to life, and as the crowd begins to roar Porthos turns his back on Sharp-face and lays out his opponent with one punch. 

The day after that, d’Artagnan is called into the ring. 


	3. Chapter 3

Pulling furiously at the ropes around his wrists, Porthos is forced along behind d’Artagnan as they are pushed down the rough-made wooden passageway that connects their barn to the ring. As they go, the noise of the crowd starts to spill in through the wide planks about them, mingling with the slats of moonlight shining in from above, then the doors ahead are opened and through the roar of sound he is dragged to the side as d’Artagnan is shoved forwards, finally stumbling to a stop in the middle of the ring.

The drunken crowd erupts at the sight of them both and Porthos twists round, just in time to see d'Artagnan's opponent, a huge man called Roche, enter the ring close behind, bouncing lightly on his heels as he raises his fists into the air, summoning more cheers, more howls, more voices raised in clamour as all kinds of bets are placed.

Still wrenching at his ropes, he spins, losing sight of d’Artagnan for a moment as he searches for Sharp-face up on his usual perch of the wagon. He finds him easily, for Sharp-face is already staring down at him, a smirk pulling his thin lips tight as he holds up a hand, calling for quiet from the roaring crowd before saying one damning word.

‘Begin!’

The cloth about d’Artagnan’s eyes has long since turned grey from the grime of the cells, but it still stands out under the lambent light cast by the torches on the walls as d’Artagnan spreads his arms out from his sides. He looks disoriented, like he’s trying to get his bearings, but as Roche charges towards him, he drops to one knee and lets Roche’s own weight turn him over his shoulder.

Porthos sees that d’Artagnan’s managed to keep one hand on Roche and d'Artagnan's at once crawling forward, hands searching for the man’s thick throat, and he allows himself to believe for one brief moment that his friend might actually triumph. Yet it is a hope borne of fools, and his heart drops into his gut as Roche twists away from d’Artagnan’s reaching fingers, then drives his fist into d’Artagnan’s face, sending him rolling away with a bloodied mouth.

Both men struggle up to their feet and Porthos can tell d’Artagnan is listening with everything he’s got as Roche makes for him again. He bellows a warning as Roche swings and d’Artagnan ducks, the move more instinct than anything else, and the crowd roars about them, delighted with the fight coming from one they had dismissed as a cripple. A spark of d’Artagnan’s old self shines through as he grins in reaction to the sound, yet it is that of his defeat, for Roche moves round behind him, his footsteps drowned out by the cheers and muffled by the dirt of the ring, and he lays d’Artagnan flat with a blow from one of the wooden posts he’d heaved out from at the edge of the ring.

‘NO!’

Porthos shouts as d’Artagnan drops, then he is twisting towards Sharp-face as Roche lets loose with a torrent of punches that has d’Artagnan bloodied beneath him in a matter of moments. Desperate, Porthos tears himself free of his guards and then he’s at the wagon and is looking up at Sharp-face.

‘I’ll do it!’ he shouts. ‘Alright? Whatever you say, I’ll do it! I’ll lose. Just call that monster off!’

Sharp-face leaves it a moment longer before he nods, and Roche is pulled off of d’Artagnan, who is lying near motionless beneath him. Porthos finds his wrists being cut free and he barrels forward to be at d’Artagnan’s side.

‘Hey,’ he says, patting roughly at his cheek. ‘D’Artagnan? D’Artagnan, it’s me. D'Artagnan, stay with me.'

Then the guards are there, pulling them both to their feet, and all that’s left to do is to help a barely-conscious d’Artagnan stagger back to their cell, beaten and bloodied and with the cloth about his eyes long gone, revealing the damage beneath. The other fighters rattle the bars of the cells as they enter, shouting out insults above the clamour, but Porthos ignores them, levering d’Artagnan onto the ground and grabbing for some of the rags they had made from the ends of their shirts. One step, two, and he’s at the water barrel, but before he can do much more than dip the cloths in, a shadow falls over them both.

‘Disobey me again,’ Sharp-face says, his eyes iron-hard, ‘and I’ll give him to the guards.’

He leaves them then and Porthos treats d’Artagnan’s wounds as best he can before tugging him close against the cell wall and sitting down next to him, one hand clenched tight on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and not letting go.

That night, he doesn’t sleep.

* * *

 

It is two days later that he sees his friends.

He has just sent a man spinning with a move learnt off the Captain, when he hears a familiar voice rising loud and clear above the cheers of the crowd.

‘My friend,’ the voice is saying, and Porthos’ eyes snap up to find Aramis in an instant, near indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd with the non-descript brown cloak that covers his pauldron and the arm that is slung about his drunken companion’s shoulders.

‘My friend,’ Aramis says again, giving the man a congenial shake as he nods in Porthos’ direction. ‘I would bet a hundred livre that if I came back later this very night, that man in the ring there could make that very same move again. Truly, he must have learnt it from the best in the land! Why, were I up against him, one might even say that two men might be needed to take him down! Were I not such a skilled fighter myself, of course.’

His eyes flick to Porthos, and Porthos nods short and sharp before turning back to his opponent, who by this time has recovered enough to come at him again. Eager to end the fight now, Porthos glances towards Sharp-face, gets the nod that he needs, then he finishes his opponent off and hurries back to the cells as quickly as possible.

‘D’Artagnan,’ he whispers, entering the cell and dropping to his knees beside him, placing a hand on his thigh. ‘Aramis is here - Athos too, I reckon. They’re here and they’re coming for us. Tonight.’

D’Artagnan goes tense beneath his hand and Porthos grins, then claps him once on the shoulder before getting up to pace the cell as they wait for the last fight to finish and the cells to be locked afterwards, once every man is back inside. At long last it is done and more hours pass which are made longer by waiting, then finally the barn is quiet, with the only sounds the snores of the other men as they sleep off a hard day in the ring.

Knowing they will need their strength, he and d’Artagnan take turns to keep awake until finally, sometime during Porthos’ third watch, he catches sight of two shadows slipping along the narrow corridor that runs along the barn before stopping in front of their cell.

He is unable to stop his grin from burgeoning as he reaches down to wake d’Artagnan before taking hold of the bars of their prison, giving them a fierce shake as joy rises from deep within at the sight before him. Aramis and Athos are both there, draped in cloaks but otherwise looking much the same as ever – yet he notices as Aramis crouches down to get to work on the lock with a narrow pick, that Athos’ arm is bound across his body underneath his cloak, though Athos himself seems to be bearing it no mind as he paces up and down in the passageway, seemingly torn between keeping watch and taking out his impatience.

The lock clicks and Aramis is inside the cell between one breath and the next. They embrace each other, Aramis's warmth at once solid and familiar, then Aramis is pulling back with a sharp exclamation that makes Athos, still on lookout outside, hiss at him to keep silent.

‘D’Artagnan?’ Aramis says, leaning round Porthos to see behind him into the shadows of the cell, and Porthos realises his friend’s sharp gaze has caught the cloth bound about d’Artagnan’s head even through the darkness.

‘His eyes,’ he says softly and Aramis stills, then goes to his knees beside d’Artagnan, slender fingers drifting towards the bandage before lowering instead to draw d’Artagnan close, gripping his shoulders tightly.

‘Oh, d’Artagnan,’ he says, but there’s no time for words, for Athos has climbed into the cell and is hushing them, gesturing towards the long corridor that leads outside to the other barn, along which voices can just be heard.

‘Someone’s coming,’ he whispers. ‘There’s no escape that way.’

Porthos feels his heart sink. They had been trapped for so long and now to be cut off, with their friends with them no less -

But by his feet d’Artagnan has shifted, and is turning to press at the stone wall behind him with his hand as he uses the other to push Aramis away.

‘What are you doing?’ Porthos hisses, dropping down to grab at his shoulder, but then a soft beam of moonlight is shining through at ground-level where d’Artagnan has removed a stone from the cell’s outer wall, and already he is pushing at another, which soon falls with a soft thump onto the grass outside, revealing more of the silvery light.

‘I’ve been trying-’ d'Artagnan starts, but there is no need to say anything, for Aramis’ eyes have lit up even in the darkness and his dagger is out and he is attacking the wall alongside d’Artagnan, using the blade in his hand to chip loose the hard mortar that d’Artagnan had been unable to break with bare fingers.

It takes Porthos a moment, but when he catches on he joins in at once, using the strength he’s built up with his bouts in the ring to shift aside the loosened stones, one after the other, widening the gap all the time. And then Athos is there after a last glance at the corridor, pressing his forehead to d’Artagnan’s before guiding him aside so he can get to work himself.

‘The water,’ hisses d’Artagnan, and Porthos shoves himself up to grab the bucket from the other side of the cell, careful not to let it bump against the bars. He pours its contents onto the hole they are making, softening the earth and making it easier to dig until finally the hole is big enough and Aramis can edge onto his stomach to worm his way out, using the slipperiness of the damp dirt to help ease his way.

D’Artagnan is next, with Athos guiding him with his free hand on the back of his neck, shifting it to his waist until Aramis is able to pull d’Artagnan through from the other side. They then tug out a couple more of the heavy stones until Porthos can fit his broad shoulders in where the others had gone easily.

It’s a tight squeeze, and Athos is still to come behind him, but at last they are all outside the barn and are heading away at a steady jog, and d’Artagnan is safe between them all and Porthos can finally relax, his shoulders dropping what feels like a foot as weeks of pressure and tension and encompassing fear leave him at once and all in one breath.

Beside him, Aramis murmurs something to Athos, who pulls d’Artagnan’s arm closer over his own shoulder and leads off across the fields, measuring his pace to the best d’Artagnan can do. Aramis stays back at Porthos’ side and starts to speak as soon as they are a few fields away.

‘They nearly caught us,’ he says quietly. ‘The night that they took you, I mean. Athos heard a noise and he had got up to look.’ He huffs a helpless laugh. ‘He tripped over me – that’s the only reason I was with him and not asleep with you and d’Artagnan. We did a circuit of camp, then went a little further, just to make sure. A man took Athos by surprise, dropped down on him from a tree and came close to taking his arm off. The only reason Athos is with us now is because I happened to be there. I was able to kill his attacker, but by that time you had both been taken and Athos was bleeding out at my feet.’ His voice drops. ‘I had to choose, Porthos, and I knew Athos would die if I didn’t get him help.’

Porthos clears his throat. ‘You chose right,’ he said roughly. ‘We were alive, Athos nearly wasn’t. You did what you had to do.’

Aramis nods slowly, not dropping his gaze. ‘The rest of the garrison are on their way,’ he says, and the news is enough to get Porthos looking back at the barn, several fields in the distance now. ‘The Captain is with them – he led the search himself. The whole operation will be shut down in a day.’

‘None too soon,’ Porthos retorts, and is surprised when Aramis’ teeth go bright in a smile as he tugs something out from beneath his brown cloak and opens a coin pouch to reveal a mound of gold coins.

‘I’m glad I got there when I did.’

Porthos frowns, then glares at Aramis, who grins back unrepentantly. ‘You bet on me?’

‘What can I say? I have faith in you, my friend.’

Porthos wants to be angry for a moment, but then he sees Athos slowing down in front of him, his hand tightly wrapped in the collar of d’Artagnan’s shirt as he draws him to a halt, and Aramis pats his chest before breaking away, extending his stride as he jogs quickly forwards, hands already reaching for d’Artagnan’s blindfold as he slows to a stop.

The anger fades and Porthos is unable to stop himself from letting out a soft chuckle, knowing Aramis is listening.

‘So do I.’

* * *

 

It is the soft tread of footsteps that wakes Porthos from a deep sleep. He stirs, expecting to see the bars of their cell, then startles instead as he opens his eyes to the soft sheen of a new dawn playing over the rolling hills of France, the golden light that is all about softened by a gentle fall of rain that is sweet, caressing and barely there.

He takes a deep breath, relishing the fresh smells of the grass and the horses and the good clean air, and rolls to his feet, casting off his cocoon of blankets and emerging into what seems like a new-made world. Aramis and Athos are buried beneath their own coverings, Athos with one eye open as he keeps watch over them all from where he is slumped back against a handily-sized rock, and all that can be seen of Aramis is scarcely more than a curled mess of hair, lit with jewels of rain caught in the dark strands and turning them all the colours of the world.

A voice calls to him softly, drifting over the damp green grass. ‘Porthos.’

He looks up. D’Artagnan is standing alone a dozen feet from them all, close the the grazing horses, his entire body turned towards the valley that stretches out beneath them. His blindfold is off for once, held loosely in one hand, and Porthos looks at him a moment before heading towards him barefooted, leaving silver imprints in his wake.

D’Artagnan waits until Porthos reaches him before he speaks. ‘Can you see them?’ he says, nodding towards the valley floor.

Automatically, Porthos looks and sees a stream of horsemen galloping along the valley trail, bright blue cloaks billowing out behind them. The snorts of the Musketeers’ horses as they thunder towards the barn are just audible, as are the many hoofbeats that send a faint rumble through the earth, but it’s an impressive view for first thing in the morning and Porthos feels something swell tight inside his chest as he watches them – his friends, his fellows, his family.

‘Quite a sight,’ he murmurs without thinking, and then he freezes. ‘D’Artagnan, I-’

But d’Artagnan turns to look up at him and for once his gaze is accurate. ‘They always are.’ He pauses, then continues. ‘It’s bright this morning, isn’t it?’

Porthos frowns, not quite sure what is happening. ‘What is?’

‘The sun,’ d’Artagnan answers simply.

Porthos stares at him, hope burgeoning fiercely within his chest. ‘Do you mean-?’

D’Artagnan nods, a twitch of a smile starting on his face before it transforms into one of his grins, the kind he used to give before the barn, teeth flashing white and bright and his whole face alive behind it as though the entire world was in on the joke.

Porthos stares at him for a moment, then his mind catches up and he finds himself letting out a deep shout of laughter as he pulls d’Artagnan close, crushing him against his chest until d’Artagnan is gasping for breath and Athos and Aramis have rolled out of their blankets and are on their feet, hands on their swords and staring at them as though they have each grown two heads. 

It takes a while for everything to calm down, for Aramis to establish that d’Artagnan is only seeing shadows yet but that it is more than he has seen for weeks, then finally they are standing there, just the two of them, with d’Artagnan gazing at the light-swept hills as though he can never have enough of them, and Porthos grinning to himself as the sun-dappled rain falls gently upon his face.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have always loved the rare scenes we get between Porthos and d'Artagnan and started writing this fic because I wanted more of them. I hope all you lovely people who have read this story have enjoyed it as I much as I enjoyed writing it and I'd love to know your thoughts!


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